you cannot know the fears I have
by OttoVonCh-OCOLATE
Summary: After an accident leaves Sherlock comatose with possible brain damage, Joan is left to pick up the pieces.
1. Initial Shock Day 6

A/N: So I got the idea for this from another Elementary fic called A New Opportunity go check out its great!

This chapter is really short but it's sort of a prologue, this is my first thing where I'll have chapters so reviews are my motivation, leave them :)

The title comes from a poem of the same name (read that too) but read this first, let me know what you think (good or bad) and most importantly, enjoy!

Joan Watson was a strong woman.

She didn't cry unless there was damn good reason to.

She didn't get upset or flustered, she found a way to deal with the problem at hand and worked toward a solution.

But right now, she couldn't find one.

And, if she was honest, it feels as if her world is falling down.

If only she hadn't sent him out.

She should've known.

She should've been more forceful about going.

But she wasn't.

And look where it got her.

Joan took her head out of her hands and looked around the hospital room she was in. There, on the bed lay Sherlock Holmes looking smaller, more fragile and more delicate than she had ever seen him.

Fragments of the past day hit her like a freight train.

"See you there."

"I'll get a cab."

Accident on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Ambulance.

Multiple fractures.

Brain haemorrhage.

Coma.

Sherlock.

Life was going to change. In a big way.

Joan was strong.

Joan can cope.

But sometimes it's all to much.

Being a surgeon, Joan knew the side-effects this was going to have.

A whole list of things that might be wrong with Sherlock, seizures,

Weakness in his limbs, decreased alertness. Changes in vision, difficulty writing or reading, hand tremors, loss of coordination, an abnormal sense of taste.

All detrimental to his career. And if Sherlock can't work, he can't live.

That was if he lived though.

Sherlock, being in a truly horrifying state had been put in an induced coma, in effort to give the brain chance to heal itself.

That was six days ago. Other than to eat, shower and change and use the bathroom.

She had been at a loss for what to do for most of the time, and when not trying to get all the updates as to his condition, trying to work out what to do.

Other than his head injury he had a punctured lung, which was also a great threat to his well being. Doctors were estimating a approximate recovery time of 9 months.

9 months.

Nine months.

Nine.

Joan tried to wrap her head around that. Nine months without Sherlock felt like an impossibility.

She sighed.

"I wish that was me lying there. I don't know how I'm going to make it without you."

Eventually persuaded to go back to the brownstone she walked all the way.

Fearing what happened to him might happen to her.

Upon getting home, realising she would have to stay here alone she cried. The full reality had sunk in and she felt utterly, utterly helpless.

Not in the mood for anything she fixed herself a bowl of his cereal and curled up in Sherlock's chair.

These few months are going to feel like an eternity.

An eternity without the first person she had felt safe with in years.

Honestly, she was scared.

Lucky then, that Joan Watson is a strong woman.


	2. Day 7

A/N: I have no medical knowledge whatsoever, this all thumbsucked.

We are going on the slight AU where Joan didn't move out of the Brownstone.

Now I feel I have to address this, my chapters are short but I am working on lengthy ones, I believe that if the chapter has run it's course it should end, there is no point in trying to stretch it. Read, review and enjoy!

Cold.

That's the first thing that registered in Joan Watson's mind.

She was cold. Her neck was stiff.

Why? The couch, that's where she slept.

Oh.

The previous week came rushing back.

Right Sherlock, okay.

She checks her phone for texts, Bell was with him before she left.

None- but that's okay, no news is good news, right?

She hoped so.

Now was not the time to feel sorry for herself, she got up and set about making breakfast.

Upon entering the kitchen she realised that she never makes her own breakfast. She usually wakes up to it because... Sherlock.

Feeling melancholy she realised that life was definitely going to change.

After successfully (sort of) scraping together a suitable meal she showered and got ready for the day.

Captain Gregson had given her time off from cases by Day 3, but she knew shed have to get back sometime. Just not now.

She decided to go to check in on Sherlock. Just to see how he was doing, her life was not going to revolve around him.

Wrapped in her warmest coats and Sherlock's scarf (no not because missed his presence) , she walked the few blocks to the hospital, the fresh air clearing her head.

Joan wandered past a flower shop and, after some deliberation she ran in and got him a potted violet. He always had an affinity for them.

She carried on and, after purchasing a newspaper and a coffee finally hailed a cab.

He was in one of these. He was in one of these and look where he is now.

He was in one of these. He was in one of the-

No. Stop. He's going to be okay. Everything's going to be okay.

Joan felt she had to constantly remind herself of this.

She paid the driver and hopped out at the hospital. Making her way to his room she half heartedly greeted staff. He had been moved from ICU to a normal ward on Day 5 having stabilised somewhat.

In the corner Bell was sitting in a very uncomfortable chair, the bags under his eyes and wrinkled clothes indicating he had stayed the night.

With an acknowledging nod they traded places and he had left. The stress had been on them both, they stopped forcing conversation on Day 3.

She sat down and cast her eyes over to Sherlock.

He had cuts and bruises all over his arms and probably legs too. Small cuts littered his face and he had a black eye.

A tube ran into his mouth and down his throat and his head was bandaged.

Joan kept her composure, it broke her the first time, but now she had to be strong.

She placed the violets on the table and left the paper on the chair.

"I brought you some flowers- they're violets. I'm sure you said something about liking them."

While she spoke she walked over to where his chart was hanging of the foot of his bed. Checking it over her heart sank. By identifying the part of the brain that had been injured it was determined that Sherlock would, more than likely, have brain damage.

Hollow. That's what she felt. As if it was all surreal and she was moving through treacle.

She swallowed. Wow. Okay things are definitely going to change. Woah alright.

"So, says here you're gonna... gonna be a bit... different. But I'll ... I'll be here for you."

She looked around and blinked back some tears.

"D'you want me to read the paper to you? So you can stay up to date on current events?" she asked quietly, voice breaking slightly.

As she read she felt herself calming down.

She stayed for as long as she could reading every article from her perch on the chair. After what felt like hours a nurse came in to ask her leave so she could attend to Sherlock.

"Your welcome wait in the cafeteria, I shouldn't be to long."

Joan thought best to leave, Clyde needed to be fed.

She said her goodbyes to Sherlock and promised to bring the beloved tortoise by soon.

She made her way back to the brownstone.

She missed the warmth the place had, the homely feel it had. Wondering if she'll ever feel that again.

Wondering if Sherlock will ever feel that again.

If the locks would be used.

The TV's watched.

The bees kept.

What happen to the roosters.

What would happen to her.

She took Clyde out of his tank and trudged down the hall to her room.

On the way a thought struck her.

Does Mycroft know?

What about his father?

Should she let them know? How, by e-mail?

How do you e-mail someone that their son is in a coma?

She sat on her bed put Clyde down next to her and started a message to Mr Holmes.

Boy, this is a helluva message for someone to get.

Would Mr Holmes even care?

Sherlock was always telling her about how he never took part in his life, would his son matter enough now?

She hoped so, she really did.

Sherlock was going to need all the support he could get.


	3. Day 49

A/N: Once again, I have no medical knowledge so don't hold me to it. I've tried to implement a new line break system, not sure how it's going to work.

Also have done something risky in this chapter that I have mixed feelings about. Leave your opinion and I'll see about fixing it. Remember to review and most importantly, enjoy!

. * .

Day 49

It had been two weeks since Joan Watson had read Sherlock's chart.

Forty-nine days since her crumbling vision of the future carrying on as it was, melted.

Forty-nine days since she knew, not just vaguely thought, but certainly knew, everything was going to change.

Forty-nine days put her at 13 January.

Sherlock almost died on 10 November.

Life changed even more on 17 November.

Sherlock missed Christmas.

He missed New Year.

In a way, Joan missed them too. They had held a small gathering for both holidays in Sherlock's ward. Them being her, Alfredo, Miss Hudson, Bell and Gregson (who only stopped by for a short while on account of his family)

No-one exchanged gifts, the mood was too melancholy. They all found themselves wishing Sherlock would interrupt their small gathering with a malicious comment.

He didn't.

Of course he wouldn't, but when had he ever did what was expected?

Sherlock's approximate recovery time had come down by three months. His 'awakening' charted for around mid-May. That was a relief if she ever knew one, it meant that maybe he might not be the same, but she might hear his voice soon.

She missed that.

She missed his annoying ways of waking her.

She missed being dragged from crime scene to crime scene.

She missed him.

His smell, his sounds, his habits.

She had e-mailed his father notifying him of his son's state. Mr Holmes had immediately made an excuse for not being able to be there but had promised to pay for any and all hospital expenses and for Joan's basic essentials during this time.

She had been upset about that, but was very grateful as she couldn't bring herself to work alone.

She had helped on minor cases, but working without her partner ultimately depressed her.

Depressed.

She had to watch out, that's what her mother said, she better watch out that there were no repeats of what happened after her patient died.

That she didn't fall down that hole. Again.

But Joan was strong. Joan managed.

Since Day 7, she had made a habit of reading the newspaper to Sherlock. He had to stay up to date, right?

She bounced theories off of him, read e-mails Everyone had sent, get well soon cards from the precinct.

The precinct who had been oddly sympathetic, somewhere deep down, she knew Gregson probably enforced the kind words off the officers, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

Mr Holmes sent condolences too, nothing was heard from Mycroft. That was understandable, she didn't know where he was so he probably didn't know how Sherlock was.

She wished he was here though, to help her. She wished anybody would help her.

Miss Hudson, Alfredo, Bell and Gregson were all regular visitors and there never was a time where Sherlock had no-one.

She was glad. Sherlock Holmes may not have been an overly sentimental man, but this was proof he touched the lives of others.

Against hospital regulations, Joan often brought Clyde, who had sensed something wrong early on.

She set hm down on Sherlock's bed when ever she went and he would amble about while Sherlock caught up on current affairs.

Other than his healing wounds no noteworthy progress had occurred. The tube down his throat had morphed into a smaller tube dipping into his nose.

The huge amount of monitors changed as he stabilised but still ever present. Joan hated those, she knew Sherlock would too.

. * .

She had, despite what her mother read into her situation, not spent all her time moping by his bedside.

Joan had gotten stuck into the brownstone, meticulously cleaning every surface. It made her feel better.

The gender roles suck, her inner feminist said. Shut up, it helps me , Joan retaliated.

She had had just about every surface sparkling, when it dawned on her she hadn't touched Sherlock's room.

Of course she hadn't.

It's his.

He'll kill me if he finds out.

She had never been into his room, and felt like going in would be a huge invasion of his privacy.

The temptation was strong though.

She missed him.

All she really wanted was to remember what he smelled of, not the clinically clean disinfectant stink that now clung to him. She wanted to remember HIM. The real him.

Slowly opening the door she tiptoed into his room and, upon entering smiled. It was so him. Every surface was covered with a notebook, textbook or some form of knowledge conveyance. There were pictures of bees, bee keeping gear lay discarded in the corner, clothes were scattered everywhere.

His bed looked rightly untouched and she doubted he had ever spent a night in it.

Fondly she looked around, the place reeked Sherlock. For the first time in a very long time, she felt safe and at home. Picking up one of his shirts she brought it to her face, and it smelled of bee smoke, yorkshire pudding batter and cologne. Feeling a very bittersweet emotion, she sat down on his bed and tried to soak up what was happening.

. * .

It was 3am when she snapped awake, she had dosed off on Sherlock's bed. His privacy was officially invaded. Tough, she was in need of some invading.

After laying there a bit longer she realised what it was that woke her. The doorbell. Okay let's go open that.

Walking towards the door she couldn't help but wonder who would be here at this time of night.

On her way down the stairs she ran back to her room and grabbed her baseball bat. One can never be too safe.

She quickly ran back again as Stranger-at-the-Door was still noisily ringing the doorbell.

"I'm coming! Hold your pants up!" she yelled.

Undoing the locks she opened the door and almost fainted.

"Joan, I've come to check on my brother."


	4. Day 50

A/N: So there's been confusion about the timeline, YCKTFIH takes place a year or two after season 2, but accepting Joan never moved out and Sherlock never started working for MI6.

From next chapter I'll start skipping to where stuff actually happens, so stagnant hospital flies should be coming to an end. As always, review and Enjoy!

P.S. Imagine all Mycrofts lines as said by Rhys Ivans(?), because he rocks

. * .

"What are you doing here?" Joan practically yelled, "You were supposed to be dead!"

"Joan, as I stated before, I simply wanted to check on my brother's well being. We are family after all." Mycroft stated hands raised defensively as he battled his case in the kitchen.

"You are the last person he would want to see. Try and remember what he said last time he saw you?" Joan was not pleased. She was tired and sad and just wanted to go back to bed, possibly with ice cream.

Forgetting herself she was swinging the bat dangerously at him.

"Try to be rational woman! That is my brother! We grew up together! I do not care about what he said before, push has come to shove and I care about him! Besides," he added calming down, "I've heard that he is in no position to protest."

"Look, I'm sorry, these past few weeks have been very hard ... Its just ... Why now? Where have you been all this time? Where were you when he needed you? When I needed you?"

By now, Joan had dropped the bat and was leaning on the kitchen counter, back turned.

Her shoulders were shaking slightly as bottled emotion slid down her cheeks.

"Joan, Joan I'm sorry, things have been ... complicated. I came as soon as I heard, as soon as it was safe to. I never wished either of you harm." He moved closer to her and attempted to comfort her. Arms wrapping around her familiar figure he held her tight.

Joan melted into the embrace for a short while, grateful for the much needed comfort. After a short while she grew uncomfortable in the situation and broke loose.

"Look, Mycroft, I'm sorry but it's complicated here too. I don't ... I don't know what to do. Or ... I just don't know okay? Now do you have a place to stay? I can set up the couch?" She offered.

"I'll be most grateful for the hospitality," after a hesitant pause he added, "I'd like to go see my brother tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, if I were you I'd just be glad he isn't awake to protest."

. * .

It was 9am the next morning when Joan walked through to the kitchen. Upon entering she saw Mycroft busy making omelettes.

"Good morning, I hope you don't mind, I took the liberty to prepare some breakfast." he said looking like a deer in the headlights.

"Oh no, no it's fine thanks," Joan said walking over to the coffee machine, "I want to go see Sherlock later, though."

"Brilliant, I've been meaning to do just the same."

. * .

They entered Sherlock's hospital room together, but after seeing his expression Joan offered to give them some time alone.

"I'll go get us some coffee, you look like you're gonna need it." she said slipping out the door.

Mycroft didn't notice, his eyes were glued to his brother's frame. The coma had shown him to lose a lot of weight, his eyes had dark marks under them and, despite having healed a lot, he still had a few cuts on his face. The tubes dipping into his nose and the stillness of his usually constantly moving body had just added to the heartbreaking scene.

From a young age Sherlock had always had cuts and bruises, because of being such a busy child, however this was a whole new level.

Mycroft's heart bled for his little brother, although time had gone past he still saw him as a buzzing 9 year old.

"My God, Sherlock what have they done to you?"

The disbelief hit him and he had to sit down. Falling in the chair next to Sherlock's bedside he brought his hands to his face.

This was too much.

He had been told that Sherlock had been in an accident.

He had been told it was bad.

He had not expected this.

Mycroft remembered when Sherlock was five and he was twelve, and Sherlock kept hindering him for a book on Ancient Egypt.

When Sherlock was seven and he was fourteen and Sherlock got bullied at school and ran to him for help.

When Sherlock was ten and he was seventeen and Sherlock begged him not to leave him alone at home with Father.

When Sherlock was fifteen and he was twenty-two and Sherlock ran away from home to live with him.

He remembered Sherlock as the vibrant child he had been.

The busy adult he had become.

And his mind couldn't comprehend that this had happened to him.

Mycroft, though was not proud to admit it, cried. He wished this had not happened to him.

But remembered that wishing had no use.

He quickly dried his tears and sat, dumbfounded, holding Sherlock's hand.

This was not going to be easy, he soon realised.

The waiting, the guessing.

None of it.

The door clicked and Joan Watson came in with their coffees.

"Now a good time?"

"Yes, yes of course, I was just ah..."

"It's all right, it has been a tough time for all of us." she said handing him the coffee.

"Have you... any... any news about ... him?" he asked tentatively, fearing the worst.

"Um, yeah uh, you're ... you're gonna want to sit down."

Mycroft paled. "That bad?" he barely more than whispered.

"Sherlock's had a brain haemorrhage, that means-"

"Swelling on the brain, yes, yes I am aware, do continue."

"Well, um, his doctors have been able to determine that Sherlock is going to have some form of ... brain damage."

"Oh Lord," Mycroft's voice cracked, " have you ... any... any idea how he is going to... going to be affected?"

"None." Joan cracked as well. This was too much. He looked so much like Sherlock and the worry for his sibling was overwhelming.

She took a step closer, "Look, it's definitely going to be hard. But this is Sherlock we're talking about. He'll pull through."

Mycroft sought out for comfort and wrapped his arms around her.

"Joan, this is Sherlock we're talking about, he is a man of extremes. If there's any damage, there will be a lot of it."

And, there in the hospital room, accompanied be the beeping of the monitors, they cried. Finally grieving after both being strong for slightly too long.


	5. Day 178

A/N: This one's quite short, but I've been swamped with work lately. Lemme know what you guys think, things you want to happen, ships, whatever (I'm feeling generous) and review and Enjoy!

.*.

Day 178

It had been a little over three months that Mycroft had been living with Joan.

His company had made the seemingly endless, fruitless, wait less agonising and sometimes, not for long, she forgot anything was wrong in the first place.

Sherlock's condition had remained nearly constant and he was fortunate never to flat line. He was expected to wake up any day now, and the tension was killing them.

Joan really, really wanted him back but she feared what he might be like, the threat of him being unable to take care of himself because of the brain damage.

Mycroft wanted to start a fresh with his brother, planning on playing an open hand and supporting him after.

After Mycroft came thing definitely became easier. They would take turns cooking (although eventually that fell to Mycroft as Joan's not the best cook), watching over Sherlock and maintaining the brownstone.

Joan, currently sitting in the hospital cafeteria, chuckled to herself as she thought about Sherlock's initial response to Mycroft in New York. He was gonna flip at the thought of them having spent all this time together.

It's not as if anything happened though, the detective had them to his beck and call even when unconscious and most of their time was spent at his bedside.

Joan, with the help of Mycroft, took on some light casework in this time, knowing Sherlock would have something to say if she didn't.

Mycroft had asked if he could join the shift system Joan and the others had to watch him by, instead of just joining her.

"Trust me, Joan, it is not that I do not en joy your company- in fact it is quite the opposite. I just believe that we would put my brother at ease if he were to wake up to only one of us. Us together might give him the wrong impression. Besides, it will give us more time to sleep."

She was going to meet him in the cafeteria for lunch. Alfredo had Sherlock until two and he from then until seven. She had been working on a petty theft case and he had agreed to look it over with her. Although, to be honest, she did not need his help, it was nice having a conversation with someone about a crime (now there's a sentence she'd never thought she would say).

Hospital staff had grown quite accustomed to the constant presence of someone in Sherlock's room. In the beginning they were all worried and felt the need to be here. Near the end they wanted to be there when he woke up. In the middle they had agreed that someone was always to be there so Sherlock would never be alone.

Originally being allowed to stay had been hard. Hospital rules only allowed family into the rooms at all times and suddenly the Holmes family grew by five members.

Joan snapped out of her daydreaming by Mycroft suddenly joining her at the lunch table.

"Joan, I've found the most amazing coffee shop right in the heart of New York City, it is absolutely beautiful-"

A sudden commotion cut him off.

The doctors on the table opposite them - who Joan recognised as Drs. McDowell and Ford- jumped up, their pagers going off. McDowell and Ford were Sherlock's doctors so when they were notified of a sudden change in patient's condition, her interest was piqued.

Mycroft had noticed her expression and quickly jumped to the same conclusion.

"You don't think..." he asked quietly.

Joan's phone notified her of a new message. Checking it she saw it was from Alfredo.

If she had been serious before, her expression become even more solemn before breaking into a smile.

"Mycroft, it's Sherlock. Alfredo says he's moving. He's waking up."


	6. Day 185

A/N: Sorry about the long wait, I've had tons of work and this chapter was really hard to write. From here I have no definite plot but I can make it work. Thanks for all the feedback this has received, its really great to hear people like it. Read, review but most importantly, Enjoy!

"Sherlock?"

Joan had had quite the day.

But now Sherlock was awake and alive and she was there and he was there and everything was going to be okay.

Okay.

She and Mycroft had ran the way from the cafeteria and were finally in the room.

Joan was standing by his bedside and Mycroft hovered nervously by the door.

Sherlock slowly moved his head to face her and, to Joan and Mycroft's relief, for the first time in what felt like years, smiled.

"Joan."

"Sherlock, oh Sherlock, I'm so happy, so, so happy you're awake." she said tears running down her face.

"Brother, I-" Mycroft began but could not finish.

"How.. How long have I..." Sherlock started.

"Brother I think it's best i-"

"He deserves to know, Mycroft," Joan finished quietly, "Six months."

Sherlock stared blankly.

"I can't move my left arm." he said finally. "I can't move my left arm and my head hurts."

"Sherlock, that's understandable, we'll have a doctor check you over-" Joan started.

"No. I don't want to. I want to go to my bees. And Clyde. I want to go back to work, but this might have - or will have- effected me and I'm not sure what to do if I can not do my work."

"Brother, we can have you see people. Father will pay for the best treatment money can buy you will be alright."

"Mycroft. I'm sure you will understand if I say I am pleased at your presence but ask you leave now."

Mycroft nodded and left.

"Joan... Joan. I ... I am grateful you all care but, I... I would like to go home." his voice sounded smaller than it ever had.

"Sherlock, I'll see when we can dismiss you alright? But you're going to need help. So, just bear with us, Mycroft and I will see you get every thing you need."

Joan moved her hand over his own.

"No! I don't want it! I don't want your help I don't need it I-" Sherlock stared to yell but was cut off when he started to convulse.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft came back in and she pressed the panic button to call nurses.

"Joan! Joan, it's all right!" he pulled her back into the hallway.

"No, no it isn't all right! It's never gonna be all right, Mycroft! He's seizing. Didn't you see that? He's foaming at the mouth and I was too afraid to help him. He can't even move his left side and he doesn't want help. I don't know what to do!" she sobbed at his side while doctors and nurses saw to Sherlock.

"Joanie, Joan, listen: he's stubborn but he's not stupid. He will accept the help but right now, he just needs time."

.*.

It's been a week since Sherlock woke up. He's been diagnosed with slight paralysis on his left side and occasional seizures. But, according to his doctors, more ailments could be revealed as time goes on. And that they probably would.

Joan said that they would work through whatever else happened together.

Mycroft said that they would get the best therapists and specialists money could buy.

Sherlock called himself a time-bomb.

But nevertheless, today he was being released. Finally.

Right now, they were in the hall, Sherlock along with the tattered remains of his clothes he had on the day of the accident and a few other possessions, had been wheeled down.

"I've called for a car, will you... will you be alright with that?"

"Mycroft, I am an adult, stop speaking to me as if I were a child! Yes, I'll be alright!"

Sherlock was helped into the car by Mycroft and Joan was given his PTSD medication.

"Are you sure you're fine with this?" Joan, ever concerned, asked him.

Sherlock opted for shooting her a glare and then staring out the window.

No-one mentioned that Sherlock kept his eyes closed the rest of the way.

Or that he stopped breathing as the crossed where the accident was.

Or that his knuckles were white all the way.

They were home.

Sherlock was home and that was all that mattered.


	7. Day 186

A/N: Sorry about the really long wait, I've had a lot on my plate and exams are starting soon. I love feedback so leave some, but importantly, Enjoy!

.*.

Sherlock was afraid.

He was alone and afraid and doesn't know where he is.

And he lost his turtle.

He sat upright in his bed and looked about. This doesn't even look like home. Where are all his toys?

His experiments?

His books?

Where's Mycroft?

Torn between waiting in this strange place and going to look for a clue as to where he is, he chewed his duvet in thought.

Supposing he ran into Da- Father on the way? He had been angry at Sherlock for breaking the Ming Vase.

He said sorry, why couldn't Father understand? Father had been very tense since things had gotten ugly with Mummy.

Sherlock missed Mummy. He wishes she and Father could be happy together again.

Yet, if he did get up, he might find Mycroft and they could play pirates.

That's if Mycroft wanted to play. He says he's getting older and doesn't always find Sherlock amusing. But that's okay because he reads all the hard words in Sherlock's books and makes biscuits.

Yes. Mycroft is good. Sherlock decides to go find Mycroft.

He gets out of bed and quietly pads through the unfamiliar house to what smells like the kitchen.

He can hear voices there and slowly peeps around the corner.

There he sees a very pretty lady with long black hair tied up in a ponytail. She's making coffee -two cups.

He hears a man's voice on the other side of the room. It sounds very familiar.

He leans further into the door to see what the man looks like when suddenly he loses his balance.

Sherlock fell to the kitchen floor- and that's when Joan knew something was off.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" she said immediately rushing to his aid and helping him to his feet.

"Why, that was unusual way to say good morning, brother." Mycroft said, amused.

"Who-Who are y-you? Where's Mycroft? You look like Mycroft, but all growned up. And like father. Like Mycroft-Father. And you, miss, are you one of Father's lady friends? I'm not allowed to talk to them, they don't like me. Do you like me?"

Joan and Mycroft took a simultaneous deep breath.

Alright.

Sherlock is in the same mental state as that of him as a very young child.

Joan said a silent thank you prayer that Mycroft was here, he would be able to determine the age.

Mycroft placed him at four. It was easy. He had still asked for Father.

Any later than that and the F-word would not even be thought of.

"Sherlock, I'm ... I'm your uncle, Father and ... Mycroft, had to go ... go hunting and have left you with Miss Watson and I." Mycroft responded as gently as he could, not wanting to hurt his brother's fragile state of mind.

"How did I get here then, did you kidnap me?" Sherlock asked collapsing on the floor and crossing his arms.

"No, honey, your dad brought you while you were asleep. It's alright, you are in the best of care," Joan said, carrying on the lie, "Now, do you want some cereal?"

.*.

Sherlock sat at the table happily occupying himself with Clyde when Joan pulled Mycroft aside.

"What are we going to do? He thinks he is a toddler! We need to contact one of his doctors!"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, "Preschool age. Not toddler. He's four, in his mind anyway. We can't just drag him to a psychiatrist, it might be harmful. We should call Dr Lemming first."

Joan bit her lip. "Yeah alright, I'll get the phone. You should stay with him, you'll know about any background questions, right?"

"Er, yes." Mycroft said hesitantly.

Joan walked down the corridor to call on the psychiatrist assigned to Sherlock.

Mycroft walked back into the kitchen where Sherlock was picking at his cereal.

"So... How-How are you, then?" he asked immediately filling this under the most stupid thing he's ever said.

"I'm confused. Father left me with strangers, but Mycroft didn't even say bye. And my head hurts. And my arm is tingley." Sherlock gushed.

Mycroft chuckled, "Still at the age where you don't respond with a lie just because it's polite."

"Do you want to play pirates?"

The question blasted Mycroft back thirty years. Sherlock was obsessed with pirates. He played with his boats, swords and 'crew' all the time. More often than not Mycroft was dragged in too. After Mother left, Father threw out all Sherlock's pirate memorabilia because 'he needs to grow up'. Sherlock was five. All Mycroft has ever wanted to hear were those six words again.

His voice cracked slightly, "I would like nothing more."

.*.

Joan had had quite the conversation with Dr Lemming and the conclusion had been reached. Temporary Mental Age Regression.

Temporary.

It would go.

Okay, wait it out. Right.

She walked back into the kitchen to find utter disarray, the pots had been raided and the cutlery drawer was ransacked, not to mention the completely looted.

Walking through to the living room she found all the sofas had been pushed together to form a haphazard boat. Inside Sherlock and Mycroft had pots on their heads and a spatula in each of their hands.

"Arg! It be the mighty Kraken! Attack!" Sherlock yelled in a appalling pirate-voice. Mycroft laughed and followed him into battle where he was viciously harpooning Joan with uncooked spaghetti.

"Alright guys, I surrender, can I speak to you Myc-, um you." she pointed at Mycroft.

He followed her into the kitchen to cries of, "You were supposed to fall over Kraken!".

"We're gonna need to get you a name, I can't call you Mycroft." she said softly.

"I spoke to his psychiatrist, he says this is temporary, Sherlock will be alright we just need to get him to his doctor for some therapy." Joan finished.

Mycroft was about to reply when they heard Sherlock scream.

Running into the living room they saw Sherlock laying, shaking on the ground.

He had fallen off of his boat, which might have been the trigger. He was shaking violently and foaming slightly at the mouth.

Joan rushed to help him. After eventually subduing him he remained unconscious.

"He never took his meds did he?"

"He thought I was going to drug him. He seemed so scared. I didn't want to make it worse." Mycroft added, "Seems as though I did."

"Hey, hey, we're just learning about this. We'll take Sherlock to his doctor once he comes around, okay, we'll all be alright."


	8. Day 187

A/N: Sorry for the wait, but in this time I've been really busy and have also come up with a direction for this story, that I'd like to wrap up soon. Comments and reviews are much appreciated.

(By the way, is anyone else as excited for Season 3 as I am?)

.*.

Sherlock was awake.

He knew this.

Judging by the sun, he also knew it was at least four pm. He had no recollection of the morning. Or why he was back in a hospital.

Where's Joan?

Or even his brother?

A nurse came into his room, smiled at him and asked him how he was feeling. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but instead of his well spoken British accent the only sound that came out was a garbled noise. Sherlock froze.

This is not right.

Not right at all.

The nurse hurried out, presumably to summon a doctor and Sherlock panicked.

He was alone for a very short period of time, but it felt like years to him.

Joan and his brother came bursting in with coffee cups, obviously having left for refreshments at an awkward time.

"Sherlock how are you feeling?"

Sherlock looked at her with big innocent eyes, opened his mouth to speak, concentrating hard on his speech and was bitterly disappointed when, all that came out was the familiar garbled sound.

Joan gasped.

Mycroft paled.

Sherlock cringed.

"Sherlock, I think we need to call your doctor."

.*.

After four hours, thirteen cups of coffee and many, many tests Sherlock's medical team have prepared to tell Mycroft and Joan what was wrong with Sherlock.

Mycroft counted down the agonising last few seconds and realised that these next words were going to change everything.

Joan feared the doctor's words. She was so scared of them. Sherlock would be displeased at this, she knew but ... But she wasn't ready. She wasn't ready to be told that Sherlock was probably a goner.

His difficulty with speech and age regression had, in such a short span of time, showed something was very, very wrong. Normally something like this would not have bothered them, but the speed he was deteriorating was alarming.

His test results were only due tomorrow but Mycroft threw some cash down and things were happening double time.

Joan looked over to Mycroft who's eyes were tired with dark rings under them. She was probably a mirror image of that, neither of them had had much sleep lately.

The young doctor came in, smelling faintly of coffee and sweat, probably running on his second shift in so many hours.

"I'm afraid I have some bad news..."

Joan felt out of touch with the world. All she heard was bits of sound. Strings of words that sounded like: irreversible,

Brain damage is too severe,

Will probably escalate,

Beyond functioning,

Nothing we can do,

I'm so sorry.

Beside her Mycroft sat down, dumbstruck. The doctor excused himself.

Mycroft was crying.

Joan was shocked.

Suddenly all she felt like doing was running. Running away.

Running to Sherlock.

She loved him, y'know? She loved him and he'll never be able to react to her statement and hold her and kiss her and make some stupid remark that leaves her wanting to slap his stupid face.

That's not gonna happen anymore though.

Joan left, in a daze, and walked to Sherlock's room.

Someone's gonna have to tell him.

She didn't want to be that someone.

Upon entering his room she saw him laying on his bed, head lulled to the side eyes glued to the door. When he saw her his eyes brightened. Being as stubborn as he is, he gave up on talking after he found he can't, and smiled at her mutely.

Her eyes were filled with tears, and Sherlock knew why.

A nurse had told him, she didn't think he was awake and was mainly talking to herself.

He knew he was a sinner, a drug addict, a not-worthy-of-a-second-glance type of guy. He has been dealt his punishment, a fate worse than death. His mind is going to fail him, the great Sherlock Holmes was going to die an invalid.

"You know don't you?"

He nods.

She walks over, sits on his bed and hugged him.

Her arms wrapped around him, she wept.


	9. Day 552 Epilogue

A/N: Rather suddenly, this is the last chapter, I'm not entirely pleased with how my story played out but I have become too busy to keep up with long stories too. And there is nothing worse than an incomplete fanfic. I might do a series of one-shots as a type of spin-off, but it all depends. I have no medical knowledge and nothing but the plot is mine.

Enjoy!

.*.

A year after Sherlock was told he was going to lose the functioning ability of his mind.

Fifty-two weeks after his world was shaken.

Three-hundred-and-sixty-five days after Mycroft lost his brother, the witty, sarcastic oaf who had accompanied him and badgered him, since youth.

Five-hundred-twenty-five-thousand-six-hundred minutes since Joan Watson lost her closest friend and business partner, to his own mind after an accident in the snow.

Time really does fly, doesn't it?

Joan can remember a lot of tears, in the earlier days. She can remember calling Alfredo, Gregson, Bell and Ms Hudson.

Mycroft phoned his father, who had arranged for therapists and doctors and specialists, but never came to see his son himself.

She can think back to when Sherlock finally came home, again. When they made the decision for Mycroft to get his own place in New York.

Joan remembers how hard it was, how at first they would get so frustrated because he couldn't clearly state what he wanted, and she could not understand him.

Later they worked out a system, and now - after lots of therapy- he can manage a few sentences.

Occasionally, he would revert back to childhood Sherlock. Sometimes a four year old, sometimes slightly older. Always, somehow, leading to Mycroft dropping whatever he is busy with and playing with him.

Maybe making up for time lost during childhood. Maybe this is his way of feeling better about Sherlock's upbringing. Joan doesn't know, and doesn't think it her place to know.

Sherlock seized a lot, but having gotten used to the process both Mycroft and Joan can handle it quickly and effectively.

Clyde is still Sherlock's constant companion and the often spend quite a bit of time in each other's company.

They spent a lot of time watching the TV's. Sherlock maintained that he needed to keep a strong mind, even though he had stopped doing his case work.

All in all, life had slowly settled into a routine at the Brownstone. A new normal had been established. A normal that replaced the old one. The pre-November 10 normal.

Joan Watson missed that normal, the thrill of it, the adventure, witty remarks, Sherlock's unchanged voice. How it was.

But, this new way of life, this new How It Is, it was okay too.


End file.
